Three knocks.
Not loud.
Not rushed.
But final.
Like they came from someone who had never been turned away in their life.
Riko stared at the door.
He hadn't buzzed anyone in.
He hadn't spoken to another living person in… what, five days?
knock
A fourth knock rang out.
From the inside of the door.
He stood slowly, laptop sliding off his legs and landing on the floor with a soft whuff. Instead of shutting down, it sparked again—and kept playing a lo-fi remix of elevator music, only now with whispers layered under the beat.
The temperature dropped five degrees.
Riko stepped forward cautiously, socked feet silent on peeling linoleum.
Then—the door opened by itself. Just creaked open.
Nothing stood on the other side.
No one in the hallway. Just a dim, flickering overhead bulb, swinging slightly, casting shadows that didn't match anything real.
Riko took one involuntary step back.
Behind him, his fridge door creaked open. Slowly.
Then shut itself.
Then opened again. Wider.
He turned—and someone was standing in his kitchen.
Not burst in. Not appeared. Not teleported.
Just… existed.
A figure in a violently red business suit stood next to the microwave, flipping through a leather-bound clipboard.
The being's skin was a faint metallic gold, like something sculpted from ancient coins.
Its face was smooth and expressionless—until it blinked sideways like a lizard and gave Riko a courteous nod.
"Ah. There you are." Its voice was clear and rich, like a well-tuned jazz saxophone made of smug.
"Riko Graves, welcome to your internship."
Riko blinked. "You're—uh… I didn't order—who are you?"
The thing adjusted its tie.
"Demographic Acquisition and Youth Outreach. Division 66-B. Intern Liaison, First Circle. You may call me Mr. Frix. Or not. Names are mostly ornamental at this tier."
"Cool," Riko said slowly. "Could you—uh—leave?"
"No."
A flaming envelope appeared in Frix's hand with a fwoosh. He dropped it onto Riko's kitchen counter. It landed with a hiss, burning a circular mark into the wood.
"Your onboarding packet. You'll want to review that very soon." He paused. "And I'd put the coffee on. First assignment's in twelve minutes."
"My what?"
"Assignment. As in the task. As in your soul bound trial period under the Hellscape Probationary Talent Agreement—terms which you accepted."
Frix tapped the air. A translucent screen hovered beside him.
Timer: 00:11:57
FIRST TASK: DELIVER COFFEE TO DEMONIC EXECUTIVE, WRATH DIVISION, DISTRICT 3 — HELL CORE
FAILURE PENALTY: ORGAN MELT
Riko stared. "District what now—?"
Behind him, his coffee machine sputtered to life on its own, brewing something with a sinister hiss. The steam came out in skull shapes.
The smell was sharp, acidic, and somehow… metallic?
Mr. Frix smiled politely. "Look sharp, intern. Orientation begins now."
Riko's laptop erupted into blue flame behind him, and the lo-fi beat switched tracks.
Riko took a cautious step back, eyes flicking between the flaming envelope, the steaming demonic coffee machine, and the glowing countdown timer now hovering above his toaster.
Mr. Frix adjusted his cufflinks.
"You have approximately eight minutes to reach Wrath Division, Executive Wing," the demon said, "deliver the beverage while it's still hot, recite the phrase 'Coffee is served, your infernitude,' and return intact."
Riko slowly raised one finger. "Question."
"Yes?"
"I'm not wearing pants."
Mr. Frix looked him over. "You are indeed not. Suboptimal, but survivable."
"Follow-up question, how the actual hell am I supposed to get to—hell?!"
The demon gave a pleasant little shrug. "That part's handled."
A sharp chime sounded from the oven.
The air behind Riko shimmered—once, twice—then tore open like stretched plastic wrap.
A circular rift cracked open in midair, rimmed with glowing red glyphs.
The smell of scorched metal and angry paperwork billowed out.
Through the swirling portal, he saw it:
A vertical city made entirely of jagged towers, floating highways, molten rivers, and massive office structures that pierced a crimson sky.
Giant stone cubes hovered in the air like divine server racks.
The skyline pulsed like a heartbeat. On one rooftop, a demon with six neckties screamed into a telephone the size of a small car.
"Oh," Riko said faintly. "That's worse than I imagined."
Mr. Frix shoved a paper cup into his hand. It was oddly heavy.
The liquid inside shifted with malicious intent. The lid said Caution: May Bite.
"Good luck, Intern Graves."
"I—I didn't agree to this!"
"You did, actually. And Hell is very litigious."
Frix gave a gentle push.
Riko flailed—
—and was sucked into the portal headfirst, the cup sloshing dangerously as he tumbled through colorless void and into the crackling vortex of Hell's main terminal.
He landed hard on black tile, coughing as sulfur and copier toner stung his lungs.
His bare feet burned slightly on the polished stone, and overhead, a digital voice buzzed:
"Now arriving: Sector 3, Wrath Division, Demonic Executive Delivery Pathway."
The hallway in front of him stretched endlessly in both directions.
Demons in business suits zipped by on hovering briefcases. Screaming interns ran with flaming clipboards.
The lighting was painfully fluorescent.
Behind him, the portal sealed with a wet snap.
Riko stood, wobbled, checked his cup. Still full.
"Right," he muttered, brushing a bit of hell soot off his boxers. "Just deliver the coffee, say the line, and… pray I don't die."
A glowing red arrow appeared in the air ahead of him. It flickered with the words:
[ RIGHT WAY, MORTAL ]
He sighed. "Fine. But if anyone judges me for not wearing pants, I'm throwing the coffee at them."
He started walking.